Page 74 of It's Beginning To Look A Lot Like Christmas
‘Well, go on, then, don’t leave me hanging.’
I told him about the time my grandparents had been on holiday in Devon, and had decided to treat themselves to a ‘mystery coach trip’. Ninety minutes later, the coach pulled into her work car park for a tour and chocolate tasting, her colleagues baffled as to why she was buying bargain bags of broken biscuits with a gaggle of tourists when she was meant to be on holiday.
The anecdote went down well with the driver, and I’d enjoyed sharing it. It’d been one of my grampy’s favourite stories, which we’d begged him to re-tell, over and over. I’d always assumed that letting my frozen memories thaw would do nothing but remind me of everything that had broken in my life. But joy and comforting nostalgia were also beginning to fill in the cracks. And, just like Grampy used to say to us every time he brought home a massive bag of seconds for us from the chocolate factory shop, ‘Broken biscuits might well be broken, but they’re still delicious.’
Chapter 21
?A man and a woman wearing red and green
The pre-paid taxi dropped me off on Small Street, a narrow road inthe heart of Bristol that had felt progressively familiar as the carnudged its way through the cobbled backstreets.
I’d never appreciated the architecture in this corner of the city before, its grandeur – inextricably entwined with Bristol’s complex history – having been unquestionably accepted as normal while I was growing up. But twenty years’ absence was more than enough time to see this place with fresh eyes. Despite the tightness of the road, the buildings on each side of it were impressive, with their Gothic honey-stoned facades and imposing wooden doors. And nestled in between them was an unassuming doorway, which bore a subtle Tapas Den logo.
Tom was waiting for me outside, hands stuffed into the pockets of his dark grey tweed jacket, his collar upturned in the continued absence of a scarf. Maybe I should cut mine in half and share it with him flirtatiously like a stick of chewing gum. He was doing his distinctive little bouncing thing, which could’ve signalled either coldness or nervousness – or both. As I clambered out of the taxi with as much grace as I could manage, which was very little, I noticed that his face was freshly shaven. There was the tiniest dot of nicked skin on his jaw between his chin and his right ear.
We hugged awkwardly, and I silently chided myself for imagining the hint of tenderness that seemed to be transmitting from his hand to the gap between my shoulder blades. He smelt bloody lush, the aroma of his distinctive aftershave lingering as we parted and headed towards the restaurant’s entrance. It was then I realised I’d stepped into the bowels of this nondescript venue before.
‘Hang on a sec. Didn’t this used to be Spaghetti Tree?’
‘Yes! I was wondering if you’d recognise it. I don’t remember ever seeing you here back in the day?’
Spaghetti Tree had been another saliva-chain venue I’d only ventured into once.
‘Ha, funny story actually. Though I’ll need a drink or two inside me before I tell it.’
A thought as clear as daylight flashed inside my mind:I feel like I could tell you anything.
‘I’m sure we can manage that. Just wait ’til you see what Mateo’s done with the place.’
He opened the door for me, a gust of aromatic warmth beckoning us inside. We made our way down into the infamous cellar that had been the location for countless teenage drinking exploits in the nineties and early noughties.
But the basement room that welcomed us at the foot of the staircase was unrecognisable. Instead of cigarette-stained magnolia walls and oppressively low ceilings painted black, the cellar had been stripped back to its original bare bricks, with miniature festoon lights strung across the arched ceiling to and from every possible corner. The floor, once tacky with layer upon layer of spilt Bacardi Breezers and goodness knows what else, was now entirely coated in a stunning mosaic of obsolete peseta coins.
Huddled in every possible nook that was too small for a table were pyramids of brightly coloured Spanish tins, aglow with fairy lights as if they were miniature Christmas trees.
Each table – all of them snugly occupied with the exception of one at the far end of the room – was immaculately set with alternating scarlet and ochre tablecloths, long, elegant candles in old Rioja wine bottles and Christmas crackers adorned with the restaurant’s logo. The place was like the world’s classiest Santa’s grotto. And, I couldn’t help but observe, it looked incredibly romantic.
‘Umm, wow.’
‘Yeah, amazing, isn’t it? It’s well-known for having some of the most authentic tapas in the region. These days, Mateo’s got six restaurants dotted all over the area – all of them way bigger than this place, but this is by far my favourite.’
‘I can see why. It’s beautiful in here.’
Tom kept looking ahead but brushed his dangling fingers against mine for the briefest of moments. Whether or not it was deliberate was unclear, but I swear a significant proportion of my internal organs melted.
‘Yeah, it is. Ah, here’s the man himself.’
A chap around our age approached us dressed stylishly in black chinos and a black shirt, a white cloth slung over his shoulder. A warm smile lit up his face as he recognised Tom.
‘Tom! So good to see you, fella. And so glad you were able to find someone to join you in the end.’
They briefly embraced and smacked each other’s backs in that weird way that blokes do.
‘Mateo, this is Mally. Mally – Mateo.’
He squeezed the top of my arm. ‘Mally, welcome, welcome. First time here, I think?’
‘Mateo has a bit of a reputation for remembering faces,’ Tom explained, sensing my confusion.
